Occupational Hazards
by Gevaudan
Summary: Working for UNCLE brings with it an array of occupational hazards, each of which must be overcome by an agent wishing to operate successfully in the field. What will be a collection of short stories about the perils faced in the line of duty.
1. Water

The blond man stood on the pier, the violent winds lashing at his wiry body, tangling his bangs and forcing them into his eyes to obscure his vision. He appeared ill-prepared for the vicious storm that railed around him, his black turtleneck moulded to him like a second skin by the driving rain which pricked his pale skin like needles as it soaked him to the core. His hands, both raised above his head in an age-old gesture of submission did little to shelter him as his teeth chattered savagely. He ruefully concluded that the Belgian coast was in fact, not a prime holiday destination in the middle of a record-breakingly cold November. Although, he considered as he impassively regarded the bleak shoreline and the dismal buildings dotted along it, it did not appear as though the application of sunshine would do a great deal to improve the place in his standings. Over the howling gale that whistled through his ears, the young man struggled to hear the voice of the large man that stood before him peremptorily brandishing a THRUSH standard issue rifle directly at his chest.

"What are you doing here, Kuryakin?" The question was snarled, accompanied by a sharp gesture from the weapon.

"Sightseeing," Illya Kuryakin, Number Two, Section Two of the UNCLE answered drily, looking pointedly at the camera heaped in a pile with his other possessions, most notably his UNCLE special, his communicator, and most gallingly of all, his waterproof jacket. Deder Vanden Bergh, was undoubtedly not the smartest THRUSH leader Illya had encountered in his time as an UNCLE agent, but regrettably for the Russian he was savvy enough to recognise the heavy sarcasm, which earned the slender man a breath-stealing blow to the stomach.

"Restrain him," Vander Bergh snapped to his guard, as Illya fought to regain both his breath and his balance. One of the two guard flanking their boss stepped out of sight and wrenched Kuryakin's arms behind him, securing them with a thick length of rope.

It was supposed to have been a routine affair, survey and destroy. THRUSH had been suspected of running weapons from Europe to America via the port and Kuryakin and his partner, Napoleon Solo, had been dispatched to investigate, gather to allow a strike force to commandeer the vessel if at all possible. As darkness had fallen late that afternoon, Illya had slipped out of their shared hotel room to investigate activity around the harbour, while Napoleon had headed for the town bars dotted along the seafront hoping to gather information one who might be spearheading the operation and when the next shipment might be due to depart. Not for the first time in the tenure of their partnership Illya now found himself wishing that their roles had been reversed.

Illya had made it to the private dock without incident, evading THRUSH security with practiced ease. Stacked crates littered the dock, providing a hidden vantage point which allowed him to view the activity taking place, and photograph both the docked vessel, and those who appeared to be crewing it. Vanden Bergh's presence on the dock was of particular interest to the keen blue eyes, he had been the subject of a number of recent intelligence briefings coming from UNCLE Europe, thought to be a relatively junior, but ambitious, THRUSH official, not afraid to use violence and cruelty to achieve his goals. Longer observation indicated that the ship was being loaded, and Illya suspected that it was due to depart on the next high tide. Uncapping his communicator, Illya made a whispered report to the New York office. Unfortunately, his momentary distraction, coupled with the restricted visibility caused by the terrible weather meant that he did notice that the crate that shielded him was next to be loaded, and he suddenly found himself staring directly down the barrel of a THRUSH rifle.

Napoleon Solo was indisputably a lucky man. That luck, or more likely his seniority, meant that he was safely ensconced in a small, cosy, bar sipping on a Trappist ale, in the company of an extremely pleasant barmaid, while Illya Kuryakin shivered outside in the pouring rain. He played the role of tourist like a consummate profile, asking just enough questions to maintain a steady flow of conversation, but not enough to arouse the suspicions of any potential THRUSH sailors patronising the bar. That and the application of a few tactically distributed free ales, allowed him to learn a great deal about the goings-on at the private pier that was currently being occupied by THRUSH. Bar gossip told him that a new shipment had been delivered in a series of trucks that afternoon, and the ship was scheduled to depart on the next high-tide.

Solo expressed his surprise at this, waving an incredulous arm at the rain that lashed nonstop against the window. Older sailors in the bar simply laughed and shook their heads at his naivety and muttered disparaging comments about those who lived a land bound existence. With a private smile, Napoleon imagined the acerbic comments that his partner, with his notoriously poor sea-legs, would make in response were he present.

Napoleon's thoughts turned then to his partner, no doubt grumbling miserably outside in the rain. In fairness to Solo, it hadn't actually been raining at the time Illya had left, but somehow his partner possessed an unerring habit of finding any source of water possible on a mission and either falling in it, or being drenched by it, and shortly after he had left the heavens had opened. Moving to a quieter corner of the bar, Solo removed his pen communicator from his coat pocket and opened a local channel to his, doubtless miserable, friend. He heard the chime of the communicator making a connection, and braced himself for a barrage of complaint. However, he was met with nothing but silence. Brow furrowed in concern, Napoleon shouldered into his coat and headed back out into the storm.

"Search the area," Vanden Bergh ordered gruffly, pointing imperiously at his guards, "If Kuryakin is here then so is Solo."

The Russian looked at him with an inscrutable expression.

"I told you," he commented blandly, "I'm here on vacation. Solo is not here."

He expected the fist that smashed into his face, but that didn't stop the flare of pain that told him that he had broken his nose.

"Where is he?" Vanden Bergh demanded again, his tone deceptively light. Illya shook his head to clear it, ignoring the scarlet trail of blood that mixed with the rainwater puddled at his feet.

"California dreaming," Illya shrugged, "On such a winter's day."

He rocked back on his heels with the next blow, but that wasn't enough to prevent him losing his balance and sprawling across the sodden wood. He knew with certainty, by virtue of far too much past experience, that the next assault would be a kick to the ribs, that he would be powerless to intercept. Being right in his prediction did nothing to dull the sharp stab that told him that at least one rib had broken.

Vanden Bergh's guard returned, empty handed and shaking their heads, and Illya offered a silent thanks to a God he did not believe in, that Solo had not chosen that moment to reconvene with him. His gratitude was short-lived as his communicator chose that moment to emit the piercing whistle that alerted him to an incoming signal. Illya gritted his teeth as the questioning increased in intensity.

There was a steady flow of activity over the secure pier at the end of the harbour, validating the locals' theory that the docked cargo vessel was due to leave imminently. Again, Solo retrieved his communicator from his pocket, sheltering in a shop doorway to stave off the worst of the rain.

"Open Channel D," he ordered, "Overseas relay. Priority."

There was a momentary silence before the gravelly voice of Number One, Section One, Alexander Waverly came through the speaker.

"Report Mr Solo."

Solo outlined the situation concisely, continuing to monitor the activity on the pier as he did so. At his current distance he was unable to make out the slight figure of his partner, although there were several piles of crates which would have provided more than adequate shelter for the shorter man. Solo reached the end of his report and waited patiently for the Old Man to respond.

"Very good Mr Solo," he commented, after a long moment, "Your report concurs with that of Mr Kuryakin, who has advised that Deder Vanden Bergh is leading the operation. I will have a strike team dispatched to be with you inside the hour, it would be something of a coup to be able to deny THRUSH access to their weaponry without Mr Kuryakin resorting to his customary pyrotechnical proclivities."

Solo held back a chuckle at Waverly's assessment of the situation. His partner did have something of a predilection for bringing their cases to something of an explosive conclusion, and on a boat with a hold full of weaponry, that would be doubtless be a sight to behold.

"Mr Kuryakin has reported in already then?" he asked, curiously, wondering why he had been unable to make contact with his bond partner.

"Indeed, Mr Solo, although we did lose our connection to him," that sent a prickle of concern directly to Napoleon's gut, "although meteorology tells me that the weather there is currently somewhat inclement."

Napoleon rolled his eyes at the understatement, grateful that Waverly was unable to see him.

"It is quite... unpleasant, sir," he acknowledged, still uneasy about Illya's location. "I'll rejoin Agent Kuryakin and await the strike force."

"Very good, Mr Solo, if you could be so good as to remind him that we would like to take the vessel intact. New York out."

Solo was about to acknowledge the order when he realised that the connection had been terminated from the other end. Shrugging, he pocketed the communicator and headed back out into the rain.

He moved towards his objective in the shadow of the buildings, the darkness covering his approach. The rain worked in his favour, as the few hardy souls he passed had their heads bowed against the blustery wind. The pier was secured, but not extensively, and Solo had no trouble in duplicating his colleague's route onto the slippery wooden structure. What he saw before him made his heart sink.

Illya spat blood from his split lip onto the boarding he lay upon, and glared up at his assailant as menacingly as he could manage around his rapidly developing black eye. When it became clear that Illya did not know, or at least was not willingly going to reveal, the location of Solo, the THRUSH leader had seemed content to pass the time by using the Russian as a convenient punch bag substitute. He groaned as another well-placed kick found his right kidney, and found himself once again wishing that Napoleon would hurry up. His bound hands, coupled with the slippery wood and the relentless blows were making it impossible for him to stand any chance of regaining his footing and the frustration at his own helplessness was mounting rapidly. He looked up from the latest assault, the frustration in his cobalt eyes turning to relief as his gaze met a figure blessedly familiar despite being shrouded in wet weather fear slowly advancing towards him using the stacks of crates as cover.

Vanden Bergh might be tipped for great things within THRUSH, but he lacked the necessary brainpower, Solo assessed as he closed in on his prey. He was so occupied with his assault on Illya, that Solo had managed to fell the guards between them with well-placed sleep darts, the firing of his weapon obscured by the booming crash of the incoming waves. The guard at the far end of the pier remained active, but was impossible to reach without advertising his presence. Pausing for a moment, Solo considered his options, before silently signalling his plan of attack to his watching partner, waiting for his imperceptible nod before acting.

Napoleon slipped silently behind Vanden Bergh, whose attention remained riveted on the downed Kuryakin. He raised his weapon, preparing to take a shot that went wild as a guard at the far end of the berth yelled a sudden warning to his boss.

Vanden Bergh spun, alerted to Solo's presence by his guard's sudden shout, a lucky well-placed roundhouse kick disarming the agent before he had the opportunity to fire a second time. Napoleon hit the deck, grappling with his opponent's legs, dragging the THRUSH agent down along with him. The two traded fierce blows as they rolled across the jetty, first one, then the other gaining the upper hand. Frantically, Illya rolled out of the way, finally gaining the space he needed to regain his footing, his face abruptly brightened by a feral grin, that increased in intensity as he realised his partner had gained the upper hand, before fading abruptly as he saw the rifle aimed at Solo's back.

There was little time to act, and bound as he was, only a few courses of action left for him to take. The guard's finger whitened as it tensed on the trigger, and Napoleon sent Vanden Bergh spiralling into oblivion with a fierce right hook, Illya launched himself with a guttural yell towards the rifle. Napoleon looked up, a triumphant smile on his face, in time to see the THRUSH guard, and Illya, disappearing over the edge and into the churning sea below.

He hadn't known cold until this moment. The needles of rain water had been replaced by knives spearing every inch of skin. Icy fingers, strong as steel tightened around his chest, forcing the air from his lungs in a sudden, desperate burst. Buffeted by the surging tide, he lost all sense of where the surface lay, aware only of the burning of his lungs and the agony of freezing water sapping his strength, second by second. Frantically, he kicked, forcing himself to move, hoping against hope that he was propelling himself towards the surface. Spots danced in front of his eyes, but still he kicked, his heart almost bursting with relief as his head broke the surface, allowing him to gulp a few precious mouthfuls of air, before an iron grip tightened around his calf, pulling him back into the depths.

Napoleon scrambled to his feet, picking up his discarded pistol as he did so, and scanned the maelstrom before him in fraught terror, desperate to see a glimpse of his partner in the wild sea. After a heart-stopping, private eternity, a blond head broke the surface, gasping for breath, only to disappear almost immediately as the THRUSH guard desperately clawed his way up from beneath the water, using Illya's body to provide the buoyancy he needed to breach the surface. Napoleon doubted he even realised, not that he would care, that it was the UNCLE agent that he was trapping beneath the surface, so desperate was his need for air. He remembered doom filled water-safety instruction he had received as a child, packed with stories of what a panicked human would do in their bid to prevent their lungs filling with water. He'd had sympathy for them, these people so overwhelmed with their own survival instinct that they had risked the lives of their own loved ones.

Now there was no sympathy, Illya was trapped, unable to breathe, by the man that had tried to kill Solo. With a long breath to steady himself, Napoleon took aim. And fired.

Illya struggled wildly beneath the water, unable to give up until the fight for life was lost. His ears rang, his blurred vision darkening, when suddenly, miraculously, the weight holding him down, disappeared. With the last of his strength he kicked out, feeling the strength in his legs ebb away as he did so.

Napoleon could only watch, his heart in his mouth, for signs of his partner, fighting the urge to dive into the water, in a bid to find him. Seconds passed like hours, days, as he waited for -

With a spluttering gasp, Kuryakin's head once again broke the surface, his tortured lungs greedily sucking in air. Waves crashed around him, making his struggle for oxygen more desperate, and frantically he looked around him for a safe harbour. He continued to kick, to fight desperately against the swirling water, only realising as his feet hit gravel beneath him, that the incoming tide had finally, mercifully carried him to shore.

He felt, rather than saw, strong warm arms wrap around him, lifting him bodily out of the surf, before tenderly sitting him against one of the pillars supporting the pier, far away from the water, as his tormented chest tried to expel the water within. With superhuman effort, he forced his eyes open, meeting the concerned gaze of both Napoleon Solo, and several members of the arriving UNCLE strike team.

" _Tovarish?"_ Napoleon's voice was heavy with concern, but Illya found he couldn't summon the strength to smile in reassurance.

"'Poleon?" he finally ground out amid the coughing, relieved to feel his partner's fingers curl round his released wrists in reassurance.

"Illya?" Napoleon answered, as he shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around the stricken agent.

"How are you still dry?"

With that plaintive question, adrenaline released its stranglehold on Illya Kuryakin and dropped him into blessed darkness.


	2. Doors

"Napoleon, move! We do not have long before this whole place goes up in - Oh. How on earth did you manage that?"

"Well, that's an interesting question, tovarish."

"So I see."

"You took out the central generator I'm guessing?"

"I did, yes. As we discussed."

"And I assume that said generator powers the..."

"The doors?"

"The doors, yes."

"Ah. But you were meant to be on that side of the door, at the meeting point, preparing for us to make one of our resourceful and awe-inspiring escapes, not...here."

" I was, yes. But you were late."

"I am frequently late on occasions such as this."

"Yes, and you frequently need me to rescue your sorry Russian hide. So I was coming back for you."

"And as you came through the door, I cut the..."

"Power, yes."

"And so the door...?"

"Closed."

"And now..."

"Would you quit smirking and give me a little help here, please? I thought you were bellowing something about a tight deadline?"

"I will, but I believe we have a few moments to allow me to fully appreciate this for a few moments more."

"Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin, you are an evil and sadistic man and I will be putting all this in my report to Mr Waverly."

"You will voluntarily divulge, within a report which goes on permanent record, that you somehow managed, without any interference from THRUSH, to get yourself captured by an automatic door?"

"Look, are you going to help or not?"

"Of course, Napoleon, in just one moment."

"Agent Kuryakin, you put that camera down right now."

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

"Illya..."

"Very well. On three?"

"One. Two. Three!"

"Move!"

"Phew... Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now, Napoleon..."

"Yeah?"

"RUN!"


	3. Concussion

This is something of a '15 years later affair' for me. Half a lifetime ago, I wrote my first MFU fanfictions, on a school computer, in my lunch breaks, because I only had 30 mins access to dial-up internet per week at home. You can find them here and here.

As the subject matter fits this series, I challenged myself to write them again, now I'm older, and not so very much wiser. It's funny how a lot of things of changed - but I'm still sat in my spare time subjecting my two favourite spies to a myriad of injuries!

Napoleon

Ow.

Think, Napoleon.

Headache. Lying down. Limited vision.

Ow.

Ok, eyes shut. That explains the limited vision. Doesn't explain limbs made of lead and a stomach that feels like I've ridden the Coney Island coaster one too many times, but we'll get to that I'm sure. In the meantime, as Cutter said to me one too many times during Survival School: Priorities, Solo.

 **Priority Number One: Where am I?**

I'm not on the floor, or strung up by my wrists which is always a good sign. Instead, there's a rhythmic, toneless bleeping in my right ear and a tang of disinfectant in the air. The infirmary then. Not ideal, but then I've woken up in a selection of THRUSH's finest hell-holes in my time with UNCLE so it could be considerably worse.

 **Priority Number Two: Where's Illya?**

He's either in this room, keeping his own stoic vigil or he's in trouble, without a partner there to watch his back. Eyes still don't want to play ball, so I'm stuck with listening for now...

There's the soft scratch of a pen on paper and I realise I don't need vision at all. Illya is there, curled uncomfortably into the green visitor chair, ugly black glasses perched on his nose, overlong blond bangs hanging into bright blue eyes as he passes the time with the New York Times crossword. A long pause, followed by rapid scribbling and I can practically see his small, satisfied smirk as he solves a clue that's previously eluded him.

Not injured then - or at least not badly, if the medical staff are letting him bend himself into awkward, pretzel-like contortions in a bid to find comfort in his customary seat. And that's one weight off my tired mind. It's hard to enjoy the perks of being in the infirmary if you have to spend time plotting your escape to go save your partner's sorry ass from whatever trouble he's managed to get himself into. And there are perks - no matter what my stubborn Russian friend has to say on the matter - back rubs with Therese and sponge baths with Nancy for a start...

 **Priority Number Three: How long have I been here?**

Illya sighs gently, and I can hear the undertone of exhaustion in it, although it would be unnoticeable to any other observer. Several hours then certainly, more likely overnight. He's stubborn, won't want to admit to fatigue until he's sure I'm going to be ok and I know, that in that time I've been out he won't have moved far, maybe the occasional stroll down the corridor and back to stretch out tensed muscles. Officially, the staff aren't meant to encourage his unwavering presence, but I think most of them by now have battled and lost against his quick mind and sharp tongue, so his attendance goes unopposed. His diligence, and dogged determination to simply be here, goes beyond what's expected between partnered agents, and I realise, not for the first time, that I'm grateful to have a friend like him in my corner.

His friendship is something I never expected - especially given the initial acrimony at our first meeting. He was reserved, aloof and seemed to only speak to offer up criticism of me and my methods. Or, if he found himself unable to criticise those, then he seemed happy to settle for my country and its capitalist culture.

But somewhere along the line, I realised that Illya was always there. A silent, steady presence, ready to risk his own life for mine, or the mission, without question. More importantly, it occurred to me (about the time I threw myself across a warehouse to tackle him out of the way of a bullet with his name on it) that I felt the same way, even if I do with flair and bravado while he prefers stoicism and a sarcastic quip.

I'm sure that plenty of people think they could speculate about what I consider important in life: sharp suits, fast cars and women. But truthfully, although I can't admit aloud to anyone, our partnership, our friendship, is the thing, to me, that has a price above rubies. Although he'd never admit it either, I know that Illya feels the same, because if he didn't, there's a good chance I wouldn't be here now.

He's knife-edge alert though, despite the safe surrounds and who-knows-how-long of inactivity and I feel him respond to the move I make, before I'm even aware I've made it.

 **Priority Four: How bad is it?**

 _"Napoleon?"_

The softly accented voice is close to my head, its tone concerned, rather than mocking or berating. I start to wonder if maybe this was a closer call than I thought, particularly when I feel strong, slender fingers rest on my right hand. He'd never vocalise it, but he's been worried, and I suppose it's about time that I put his mind at rest.

I try to blink, pleased when my eyelids finally respond to the signals my brain has desperately been trying to send.

 _"Napoleon?"_

For all his taciturn front, there's no dissuading Illya Kuryakin from conversation when he puts his mind to it. I really am going to have to answer him if either of us are going to get any rest tonight. Unfortunately, my initial attempt to respond sounds, even to my ears, like someone throttling a seagull. Apparently it's enough though, and those familiar fingers tighten momentarily.

 _"It's alright Napoleon,_ " he says softly, as my eyes struggle open to see his rare, unguarded smile, _"You are safe, I am safe and the world is safe. For now at least."_

My dark eyes meet his blue ones in a moment of unbridled relief. Relief that we've both made it through to fight another day, largely in one piece. Today then, despite the mammoth headache, is a good day, and in our line of work, every good day is one to be celebrated.

 **Priority Five: Escape**

Now all I need to do is persuade him to get me out of here, and we'll be back in business... Again.

Illya

Whathappened? WhereamI?

Where's Napoleon?

What hit me?

Calm down Illya Nikovetch. Assess the situation currently at hand, rather than inconsequential trivialities. It was good advice when I was given it many years ago, and it remains true now and yet it always seems to take a moment for me to apply it - despite my regular practice in this particular scenario.

So, priorities. I am in the infirmary, of that there is no doubt. It is a familiar mattress with lumps in all the wrong places, but still infinitely better than the floor, or a cot in a THRUSH cell. The air tastes clean and there's a familiar background cacophony of monitoring equipment, air conditioning and UNCLE staff going about their day to day business.

I'm almost certain that I am alone, although opening my eyes for independent verification seems too much effort for too little reward right now. My head is splitting in two and my stomach is roiling as though I have just crossed the English Channel in a bathtub. I tense my muscles, carefully testing my body's responses carefully. If Napoleon is not close by then there is a good chance that he is in trouble and that means that I must get up, any injuries becoming one of those inconsequential trivialities that my comrade once spoke of. I wonder how long I have been unconscious - the amount of danger he is in is doubtless directly proportional to that and I curse the fact that I haven't woken sooner. Still, as Napoleon would doubtless say, _'Luchse pozdno, chem nikogda'._

Actually he wouldn't. His Russian is deplorable for a start.

Still, that little lapse into my native tongue suggests that I have probably been hit harder than I thought. Although it is, and always will be, my first language, the truth of the matter is that I tend now tend to think first in English and only in Russian when the situation dictates. In many ways it is no surprise; three years in New York, a spell in England and a sojourn in European education at the Sorbonne. Even in the Navy my flair was lauded as a useful skill, one that I was strongly encouraged (by a number of agencies) to hone to the best of my abilities. I cannot regret it; its saved Napoleon and I on more than one occasion when being discovered as a Russian would not have been in my favour. And yet, at times like this that it's still there, under the surface, like an old friend reminding me where I come from.

Where I come from, but not where I am going. When I was assigned to UNCLE I questioned the wisdom of my seniors' decision. Never outwardly of course, one does not question your superiors in the Russian military without good cause. But privately I wondered how I would ever be able to do an effective job for UNCLE when I would be so isolated from my colleagues. My worries were unfounded and, in the main, I have been welcomed with open arms. Now I find that there are a great many things, and better still, a great many people to tie me to New York: Mr Waverly, Mark, April, George, Napoleon... Especially Napoleon.

Now, Napoleon... Focus Illya. I struggle to open my eyes, and relax immediately as a familiar voice drifts through the air.

 _"Hello, Amy. It's Napoleon"_ I'm not surprised to hear that he sounds exhausted, he must have been here for a while if the nurses are allowing him to use their telephone to organise his social life.

 _"I'm not going to be able to make dinner tonight I'm afraid, Sweetheart."_

A pause.

 _"I know, me too - but Illya's been hurt and I need to be here."_

My heart is inexplicably warmed by his sentiment, although I should resent being mollycoddled by a work colleague. Then again, over time Napoleon has indisputably become more than that. He is my partner of course, but now, perhaps more importantly, he is also my friend. Mr Waverly would doubtless, if questioned, comment that such relationships - such dependencies - are a risk and it's possible that we owe a debt of thanks to 'Solo's Luck' that our record of successes remain adequate to keep the partnership on firm ground.

I hear soft footsteps re-enter the room, accompanied by a rattle of items as Napoleon absentmindedly fiddles with anything that lies within his reach. Patience is not his strongest suit and I have undoubtedly kept him waiting long enough already. I try to move my head to face where I think he is, regretting the move immediately as a new wave of agony slams through my head. I fail miserably to suppress the groan that this invokes.

 _"Illya?"_

I try to respond, managing only another feeble groan as I struggle to open my eyes. He's stood where I expected., looking none the worse for wear, for which I am profoundly grateful.

 _"You took your time, Tovarish,"_ he tells me, his grin relieved, _"I almost started to worry."_

I nod my thanks, certain that he can read my gratitude as clearly as I can read his relief and he rests his hand momentarily on my shoulder in acknowledgement.

"Sorry," I whisper, hating the feeble sound of my own voice, "Better late than never."

Ours is a difficult job, but together we usually manage to save the world. Eventually.


	4. Darkness

The darkness was insidious, creeping, as its chill fingers crawled their way down his spine. They'd taken everything from him, his watch, his shoes, his jacket, his buttons, his _partner_ , and he was forced to sit and wait in solitude, with no idea of the passage of time. This was the part of the job that he was worst at; the waiting. He was a man of action first and foremost, and inactivity chafed on him as badly as shackles. He wasn't chained here, that was one small mercy, but the pitch-black surroundings made any attempt to pace a fools gambit and he needed to be ready, and uninjured, to escape when the moment was right. A moment that was certainly not going to come until he had some idea of where his partner might be.

With a resigned sigh, Napoleon Solo rested back against his cell's wall, wincing at the damp chill and the slimy kiss of its lichen coating. It was at times like this that he envied Illya's ability to sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat. Doubtless, were their positions reversed, he would be curled up in the corner now, knees drawn up with arms folded on top to form a perfect pillow, conserving his energy until action was required. Napoleon on the other hand, had never mastered the talent, and so was now forced to sit, foot tapping impatiently, awaiting a change in circumstance.

This was meant to be a simple in and out job. Infiltrate the THRUSH base, find the lab, destroy the lab, doubtless with explosives if Illya had anything to do with it, and then hightail it home avoiding any of the customary resistance that their adversaries felt obliged to provide. Regrettably, despite their customary stealth, they had found themselves at the wrong end of a pair of THRUSH rifles, wielded by a couple of goons who appeared to only just qualify for the status of homo sapiens. From there they had been herded into the cell Napoleon currently occupied, with the guards only reappearing to wordlessly muscle out Illya Kuryakin.

He was not certain how long he has been sat there when his thoughts were interrupted by a distant rumble, that seemed to lodge in his bones for a moment before dissipating. He couldn't repress a smile for a moment, and he certainly couldn't be sure, but given his partner's predilection for creating loud noises and destruction there seemed a reasonable chance that he had once again managed to put his talents to good use.

Napoleon's hopes were dashed a short time later when the door to his cell opened with an ominous creak. He winced as bright light flooded in from the hallway outside, forcing eyes that had become accustomed to darkness to react to the overwhelming new stimulus. A slight, dishevelled figure hung suspended between the two guards, his face obscured by a shock of long, blond hair. With a violent swing and a curse from his minders, Illya Kuryakin was flung into the room, bonelessly hitting the ground with a dull thud.

"You'll pay for this Kuryakin," the guard on the right snarled.

"He can't hear you," his compatriot reminded him with a vicious grin, before he slammed the door shut, plunging the two UNCLE agents into inky darkness once more.

"Illya," Napoleon called his partner's name softly, trying to remember in which direction the Russian's limp body had fallen. He froze, trying not to move, even not to breathe, his ears straining for any sound that would provide a clue to his partner's location. After an interminable pause, he was finally able to make out the soft sound of Illya's breathing, followed by a lone, agony filled groan.

Face set with determination, Napoleon lowered himself to the floor of the cell, and crept forward, fingers outstretched, as he felt for his friend's prone form. Eventually, he was rewarded as his fingertips brushed against the acrylic fabric of Illya's customary black turtleneck sweater. He tensed for a moment, giving the Russian agent a chance to react to his proximity. Kuryakin had reflexes like a cat, honed by years of work in the espionage business, and so to wake him without fair warning was to risk a broken wrist, or worse.

Worryingly, there was no response from the still figure. Napoleon suppressed the thrill of concern that shot through him, and repositioned himself to allow him to run gentle hands over his body, searching out any possible injuries. There was a grating yield of the right side of his chest that suggested broken ribs, and a number of bumps and contusions that suggested that Illya's new friends had not kept their hands to themselves in their time together. Solo gritted his teeth against the surge of anger that rose in his chest, and continued with his survey. As his gentle fingers ran carefully through Illya's tangled blond locks, he heard a sudden gasp that signalled the Russian's sudden return to consciousness.

"Illya?"

"Napoleon?"

Their voices overlapped, teasing a grin out of Solo despite the severity of the situation.

"Hey, _tovarisch,_ " he greeted his colleague, "those guys did a bit of a number on you, hey?"

"Napoleon?"

"I'm right here, Illya," he gently touched his cheek, "We're both..."

"Napoleon," interrupted Kuryakin, abruptly, as though he had heard nothing of what Solo had been saying, "I can't hear anything, there was an explosion... and... I can't," there was a note of fear in his voice that Solo wasn't sure that he had ever heard before, "I can't see."

Napoleon's heart went out to him. It seemed that the distant rumble that he had heard may in fact have been Kuryakin's handiwork but if it was, he clearly hadn't managed to get away from the impact of the blast. Moving his hand carefully across Illya's face, he felt the tell-tale trickle of fluid from his ear that indicated percussive damage, backed up by the flat tone of his usually melodic voice.

How to communicate in the all-consuming dark though? He racked his brains for a moment before he turned Illya's hand palm upwards and began to tap.

Illya Kuryakin did not know where he was. The room was pitch black, and he was aware of the proximity of another person. A gentle touch on his cheek and a well known cologne meant he was sure that Napoleon was there. After a moment he felt a familiar rhythm of long and short beats across his hand, followed by a pause before the same sequence repeated.

-.. .- .-. -.-

"D...A... R...K... Dark? That's why I can't see ? Because it's dark in here?" Illya realised suddenly that tapping everything into Morse was going to be extremely time consuming, "Tap once for yes."

A single tap on his palm, sent a thrill through him and he couldn't hold in his sigh of relief. He smiled into the darkness as Napoleon squeezed his shoulder in sympathy, before resuming the tattoo of beats across Illya's palm.

... ..- .-. - ..-..

"Hurt?" Illya paused for a moment to run his own internal inventory of possible injuries. It was bewildering to hold a conversation this way, and he longed for a bit of light that would allow him to lip-read, rather than this complicated and long winded method of communication. "I think I've broken some ribs, probably perforated both eardrums and have a spectacular case of tinnitus - nothing else significant. Are you?"

Two taps.

"No?"

A single tap.

"That is good to...hear."

He felt Napoleon's laugh, could picture the smile on his face although he could neither see nor hear it. It was reassuring at least, that his partner was present, it made the whole situation considerably easier. Years of partnership meant that they could read each other clearly even when down a sense or two, something that Illya was infinitely grateful for.

.-. ..- -. ..-..

"Run? You mean, can I run?" He smiled at the single, emphatic jab to his palm, "Faster than you."

His retort earned him an amiable swat which was probably aimed at his shoulder but that ended up catching him in the middle of the neck. He aimed a backhanded swipe and grinned as he hit his target, quickly settling down to business as Napoleon returned to his side of the conversation.

.- ... .- - ... .- .-. .-. . -. . -..

Illya paused for a moment, mentally spelling out the words to make sure he had correctly understood.

"What happened?"

Another single, sharp, prod.

"They took me to Dr Megalos' lab. Apparently he is the man in charge of this little nest. He wanted to know what UNCLE knew about his development of THRUSH's new, high powered explosive. It sounded quite interesting to be honest, he felt that he could blow up an entire building with a piece the size of a pencil eraser. I didn't enlighten him on our reasons for being here, so he asked his goons to try and persuade me to remember."

He paused for a moment, wincing at the pain in his ribs, before he continued.

"Unfortunately," in a tone that suggested it was anything but, "I was a little clumsy while they were attempting to aide my memory, and I managed to knock over a few things that looked like they probably shouldn't be mixed together."

-... - - -...

"Boom, indeed. Or at least, I assume so." Despite his injuries there was a note of pride in his voice, "I tried to make a run for it but I obviously didn't get far enough to save my ears. I think Megalos is dead, the lab is definitely destroyed but there is still a good number of underlings flocking upstairs, trying to salvage something from the situation. Given the zeal with which a couple of them knocked me out and dragged me here, I assume we are to be the peace offering to THRUSH Central."

.-. .-.. .- -. ..-..

"Plan?" Illya's voice, while flat still managed to transmit his incredulity, " What have you been doing? I have been captured, interrogated, deafened and yet completed our mission, and you expect me to have come up with an means of escape as well?"

He rolled his eyes at the single tap that came in response, even though he was well aware that the gesture was futile.

"Napoleon, sometimes I wonder why I even bring you along."

He could almost hear the response that a comment such as that would generate, and found himself momentarily grateful for his deafness.

"Do you have any equipment left on you?"

Two taps caused Illya to grimace, and mentally try and run through any possible options in his head. It was frustrating, being unable to bounce ideas off his partner as he would usually, something that would make this whole process infinitely faster. Instead, while he could speak freely, Napoleon was confined to responses in Morse code making it extremely difficult for him to provide any glimmer of the inspiration Illya needed. In the end, he conceded defeat.

"I think," he said slowly, not loving the idea, "we might have to go about the old fashioned way."

..-..

He smiled as Napoleon tapped out the code for a question mark against his palm.

"Someone, whoever gains the upper hand out there, will doubtless send for us at some point."

He waited for Solo, to concede the point then shook his head, not realising that his partner had in fact done so, although he hadn't heard it. After a momentary pause, he continued.

"One of us can play dead, probably me, the other hides behind the door and..."

He tilted his head, Napoleon's voice so clear in his head that he could have almost sworn that his hearing had suddenly returned.

"I know it is lacking in our usual sophistication, but right now I am afraid that it's all I've got. "

\- -.-

There was a moment of silent, stillness in the cell, that hung uncomfortably between the two men, broken suddenly as Napoleon suddenly flipped Illya's hand over and gripped it firmly, hoping that he could confer with his touch, everything that he couldn't say to his friend at the moment. After a long moment, he felt Illya's fingers curl around his in response.

" _Spasibo, tovarisch."_ Although softer than usual Illya's voice was strident in the overwhelming silence.

The metallic rattle of keys in lock spurred the two men into action, moving in wordless synchronicity honed by years of working together. Illya lowered himself carefully to the ground, attempting to avoid jarring his injured ribs as Napoleon tentatively moved to the edge of the room, to take up a position behind the door, which opened to allow of dazzling light into the room, highlighting the blond hair of the prone agent.

The two guards sent to retrieve them had clearly read Illya's script and were content to play their roles as written, gamely trooping into the room to retrieve him without giving any due consideration to where Napoleon might be located.

The element of surprise meant that the first guard was dispatched with little ceremony, leaving a two on one scuffle to remove the remaining opponent. Illya was a little late to the fight, having missed the usual auditory cues that proved useful in such scenarios, but rapidly made up for lost time as Napoleon hit the ground next to him, following a brutal right hook from the guard. After that, the fight was fierce but brief, and in short order the guards were divested of their coveralls and rifles, providing the two UNCLE agents with the semblance of a disguise. They slipped swiftly in the corridor, Illya pausing briefly to beam at Solo.

"For once my friend, I can truly say that it is a pleasure to see you," he commented, wincing in apology as Solo gestured at him to reduce his volume. "Sorry!"

Solo, cast an appraising eye over the Russian agent. As he thought, there was a trickle of blood from both ears and his face was darkened with bruises that in a few hours were likely to be truly spectacular. He was favouring his right side slightly, but he met Solo's appraising gaze with a confident stare. Beckoning him to follow, Solo led the way down the corridor, taking the first corridor he saw that led off the main passageway. He paused briefly, allowing Illya to catch up, and then slip in front to take the lead. Napoleon wasn't sure how much of the compound his partner had seen, but a little knowledge had to be better than the vague impression he had managed to garner before their earlier capture.

Regrettably, that meant that Illya didn't hear the sharp command to halt, that came from behind them, or see Napoleon throwing up his hands in the age old gesture of surrender.

"I said halt!" the voice rang out again, accompanied by the sound of multiple rifles being brought to bear. Napoleon racked his brains fruitlessly for a means of getting his partner's attention that wouldn't result in both of them being shot. Nothing came to mind.

"Illya!" he finally shouted in desperation, praying that he might hear at least something of his cry.

His partner did not turn round.

"Hold your fire," the command from behind Napoleon was unexpected, but the voice, he realised, was suddenly unmistakable.

"Mark?" he queried, arms still raised.

"Napoleon?" the cockney accented tone was amused, "There you are, mate. We've been looking all over the bloody place. And where the hell is Illya off to?"

"What the hell is going on round here?" Napoleon asked, before he realised Illya had disappeared around the next corner, "Hang on a moment."

He jogged swiftly after the rapidly moving Russian agent, attracting his attention with a sharp tap to the shoulder, grinning as Illya turned to regard him with irritated blue eyes.

"Some backup you are," he enunciated clearly, making sure Illya could follow, "I got captured back there." Kuryakin's eyebrows knotted in confusion, "it's alright. It was our side." the confused expression didn't lessen, "Apparently Mark is here."

Illya's eyebrows rose at that and he led the way back to the UNCLE task force, grinning broadly at Slate when he saw him.

"Hello Mark," he greeted him, cheerily, "What are you doing here?"

"Well, we picked up reports of an explosion out here, but neither of you reported in. Mr Waverly ordered us to come and confirm completion of the mission, and collect you." He turned to Solo as he continued, "I'm guessing you took out Megalos? It's sent them all into a right flap - pardon the pun. There's little groups all over the place, no one knows what anyone else is doing, they're all so busy trying to cover their hides with Central."

He stopped as Illya growled in frustration.

"What did he say?" the Russian queried Solo, irritated at his deafness.

"They're the Cavalry," Napoleon surmised, catching the look of confusion on Mark's face, "Beethoven here composed the explosion that took out Megalos. Unfortunately, he didn't run fast enough."

"Ah," Understanding dawned and Mark turned to Illya speaking slowly and loudly, "Are. You. Alright?"

The slight blond rolled his eyes in irritation. "I am fine."

"And he's cheerful as ever." Mark commented, sotto voce with a smile.

"And he can lip read," Illya informed him, bluntly. "May we go now?" he asked Napoleon, ignoring Slate and his embarrassed blush completely.

Napoleon grinned, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulder. "Sure thing. Say _tovarisch,_ how did Noah see in the dark?"

There was a wicked gleam in his partner's eyes before he schooled his features into an expression of perfect innocence.

"I'm terribly sorry Napoleon, I can't hear you."


End file.
